


Never Try to Trick an Old One

by Kantayra of Yore (Kantayra)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-01
Updated: 2004-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 00:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra%20of%20Yore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another of Spike's brilliant plans goes awry. Humorous Spike/Illyria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Try to Trick an Old One

Angel or Angelus, either way it didn’t matter, Spike decided. Because whichever part of his grandsire was in control, he was still a right bastard.

Grumbling, Spike slouched insouciantly in his seat and glared at the phone before him. The Fang Gang was back to the basics of this old rundown hotel, Wolfram & Hart’s legions gone but their occasional nefarious schemes still trying to work against the Champions – and, god, how Spike hated that word. And now that Angel was back on home turf again, he’d taken delightful glee – so much so that Spike feared that moment of perfect happiness was near – in making Spike his bloody receptionist.

Eyes flecked with gold, Spike growled at the telephone before him. The telephone, as all inanimate objects are wont to do, ignored him completely and continued to sit blissfully on the table, taunting him with its endless potential for suddenly ringing and actually making him _talk_ to whatever tosser was on the other end.

The phone was mocking him; Spike was quite sure of it. Angel was mocking him, too. Either that, or he desperately wanted to go out of business right now. Because, honestly, how much of an idiot would you have to be to think _Spike_ would make a good receptionist?

No, it was clearly a lesson in humility. Quite possibly because Spike had managed to total the newest Angelmobile.

So Spike slouched at the desk and sulked and looked as put-upon as he could possibly manage. It was difficult, of course, when no one was there to _watch_ his misery. Charlie had walked through earlier, saw who was on phone duty, and fled upstairs before Spike could bum the onerous chore off on him. _Some friend_ , Spike scoffed.

A deep boredom settled over him, and – with a flurry of frantic energy – he suddenly began to pace. The room seemed small and confining, and he was practically bouncing off the walls when a blank, curious voice interrupted him.

“Remaining portions of the Winifred Burkle psyche are attempting to influence me to inform you that you might benefit from something called ‘Prozac’.” Illyria tilted her head to one side and seemed to stare right _through_ him with those alien blue eyes of hers. Almost as it what she was really looking at was inside her, and her eyes had been abandoned to their blank staring for the moment.

It sounded like the sort of thing Fred would’ve said to make him smile. The very thought made him even moodier. “Thanks, but no thanks, luv.” He began pacing again, but slightly less violently this time.

Illyria’s attention shifted back to her eyes, and she watched him walk back and forth several times before she spoke again. “You expend energy on a task that brings no benefit. You are foolish.”

He scowled at her. “Never would’ve noticed without you,” he replied sarcastically.

“Your worship will be repayment enough,” she responded magnanimously.

Spike snorted and sat back down with the grace of a caged tiger.

Illyria, who had no purpose for being there that Spike could see, just continued to stand in the doorway, oblivious to how her unnatural actions were making him uncomfortable. _She’s not even moving!_ Spike grumbled internally.

Now stuck with an inanimate telephone and an inanimate demon, Spike began to feel downright twitchy. And that was no fun at all. Just looking at Illyria, standing there, not bothered in the slightest by remaining perfectly still for hours, and…

Spike’s mental litany trailed off when he came to a sudden inspiration. _Not bothered in the slightest by remaining perfectly still for hours_ , he repeated in his head, his lips curving into a smirk as a scheme came together in his head.

“Hey, Blue,” he said innocently.

It took Illyria a moment to react from whatever far realm of thought or memory she’d been absorbed in. “You address me?” she demanded haughtily, blue little nose turned up at the very notion.

Spike grinned. “Got somethin’ to show you.” He patted the table beside him.

Illyria puzzled over his gesture. He seemed to be indicating the counter before him. “I have seen, tasted, and studied all the tables that intrigued me,” she informed him.

He blinked at that, mouthing the word ‘tasted?’ before shaking her latest eccentricity off. “Not the table. Somethin’ new and exciting.”

Puzzled and somewhat suspicious, she approached. “Your smile is asymmetrical, and you have raised one eyebrow. You are scheming against me,” she correctly concluded.

His eyes went wide with faux-innocence. “Me? Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Illyria frowned. He was either being honest or being incredibly deceptive. This mortal deception often puzzled her; it was so much simpler to state what you wanted and, when refused, to obliterate all those who dared such insolence. But mortals were weak and had discovered lies as a compensation for their lack of power.

Nevertheless, she could see no reason not to discover what he was talking about. Perhaps it would be new and exciting, indeed. If not, she could always punch him in the nose and make him whine like a little girl. She smiled at the thought and approached him. “What do you wish of me?”

Spike gulped and shifted uncomfortably in his pants. Could she possibly have picked a more loaded question if she tried? Biting back the instinctive ‘guaranteed quick and painful death’ response, he rose from his seat.

“Right. Sit down.”

Illyria blinked at him slowly, as if not quite comprehending that he’d deigned to give _her_ a command.

He let out a little snort of frustration when he realized why she wasn’t responding. “It too much to ask for you to just go along with me _once_?” he asked rhetorically.

“I am the god; you are the pet,” she reminded him.

His jaw ticked as he fought back the urge to lash out at her. Christ, this woman drove him up the wall! He’d counted to ten – in red – several times before he finally calmed down again enough to speak without starting World War III in the middle of Angel’s lobby.

“Just works best if you’re sitting,” he insisted.

Illyria’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Unlike your weak, half-breed body, this shell does not weary from—”

With an exasperated exclamation, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed down. Hard. His actions had the intended effect. Caught off guard, she sat right down, a surprised look in her eyes as she suddenly found herself at eye-level with the seam of Spike’s jeans.

And that last thought just wasn’t any good at _all_ , Spiked decided, trying to fight back his instinctive arousal. Of course, Junior was as uncooperative as ever.

Illyria’s gaze turned intent, and the slow outward movement of his seam distracted her from her outrage at being handled by a mere half-breed. “A parasite had burrowed beneath your armor,” she informed him, alarmed. “Is this what you meant to show me? You wish for me to assist in containing it?”

Spike couldn’t help it; he groaned. He considered abandoning his plan then and there and giving her detailed instructions on how the only way to subdue the fearsome ‘trouser snake’ was for her to take it between those sweet blue lips of hers and suck hard. Chances were, she’d do it unquestioningly. And a free blowjob was nothing to sneeze at. However…

Spike cursed his soul for the eight-millionth time. Stupid conscience, keeping him from getting laid…

“Uh, no.” He quickly backed away before she could decide that ripping the ‘parasite’ out was an appropriate response. “That’s just…” He struggled for an explanation while she watched him with curious – and strangely innocent – eyes. Then, a perfectly wicked form of revenge occurred to him. “You’d best ask Angel about that one. He always insists he knows better’n me.”

Illyria made note to do so. Memories in this shell had responded instinctively to the sight of the movement within Spike’s pants, and this intrigued her.

Spike had thoroughly amused himself now. “Yeah, tell him to give you the whole ‘birds and bees’ speech,” he chuckled.

Illyria was puzzled by his laughter, but it seemed to be directed at their leader and not at her. She’d learned over the past months to grow accustomed to the two half-breeds mocking each other. She had one fragment of memory of Fred referring to such behavior between them as ‘cute’.

“So, anyway.” Spike adjusted his jeans yet again as he sat on the edge of the desk. “Today you’re learnin’ all about the joys of the telephone.”

“Your telephone possesses no emotions, let alone joy,” Illyria corrected him, studying the black device before her.

“You feel the joy, monitoring the phone,” Spike corrected.

“That is why you were walking about the room aimlessly earlier?” she inquired skeptically. “You felt joy?”

Damn, the bird was more perceptive than he’d given her credit for. “Well, too much of joy is a bad thing,” he said quickly, rushing through the words in the hope that he could distract her with something else. “Very important mission you’ve got here,” he informed her solemnly, gesturing back to the phone.

“It does not move. It possesses no magic. It is an easy opponent to vanquish.” She raised up one fist to squash the poor little phone into oblivion.

And, despite Spike’s recent hatred of the very device in question, he felt obliged to stop. “Ah, ah,” he corrected. “We don’t slay the phone. We slay the things the people _on_ the phone tell us to slay.”

Illyria considered that. “That would likely provide more challenging opponents,” she agreed.

“Right.” He clapped his hands together, pleased that he’d gotten his way on one point. With Illyria, that in itself was accomplishment enough. “So, now…” He pushed the phone toward. “Your shift.”

“I do not understand.”

He sighed. “You just sit there and wait for the phone to ring.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” He started to back carefully away.

“What do I do when the phone rings?” she inquired curiously.

“Oh right.” Spike could’ve slapped himself. So eager to be out of this tedium that he’d forgotten the whole point. “You tell ‘em that this is Angel Investigations and find out what baddie we hafta go kill.”

Illyria nodded. That seemed simple enough.

As if to test her, the phone chose that moment to ring.

Spike gestured toward it hesitantly.

Illyria cautiously picked up the receiver, as if it were a rather foul-smelling specimen, and lifted it to her ear. “This is Angel Investigations.”

Spike smiled at a job well passed-on.

“We will annihilate your foes and feast upon their bones. Blood will rain from the skies. We will bring you the spines of your enemies and—” She belatedly noticed Spike wincing and paused to look at him.

The very startled woman on the other end managed to get a few shaky words in.

“No,” Illyria responded. “We will not purchase these ‘newspapers’ you speak of. I will personally arrive and behead them, however. Where are you located?”

A dial tone at the other end.

Illyria stared intently at the receiver as if it had done something particularly interesting. “I was unable to obtain the location of the newspapers we must slay,” she finally informed Spike apologetically. Truly, this was a dark era when even a goddess such as herself couldn’t accomplish such a simple task.

He bit back a chuckle. “Nah, that’s all right, luv. You slayed that telemarketer right good.”

Illyria was surprised to learn that she’d acted correctly, but pleased as well. “I could locate the callers instead and slay _them_ ,” she suggested.

That sobered Spike up quickly. “Maybe I’d better just stick to the phone,” he hastily suggested.

Illyria rose in agreement. “I bear a message from Charles,” she informed him as he sat down.

“Oh?” Spike raised a suspicious eyebrow.

Illyria altered the configuration of her voice box to imitate Gunn’s speaking pattern. “Maybe _that_ will teach you to do your own work,” she said, sounding eerily like a tape-player playing back Gunn’s own jovial tones.

Spike scowled. “Fairy ponce,” he grumbled under his breath, scowling at the telephone with renewed hatred. And, of course, plotting his revenge. “Say, Lyri-love,” he suddenly perked up, “don’t s’pose you’d be willing to do a bloke a favor?”

“You require assistance with the demon between your legs after all?” she suggested somewhat hopefully.

He gulped and shifted. “Er…yeah. But first…” He leaned in conspiratorially, voice lowering to a whisper.

And Illyria leaned in eagerly as well. She would further study and participate in this mortal ‘deception’, in its highest form – the ‘practical joke’.

And, perhaps, one day she’d understand why those around her found it so funny that she slay one another’s possessions…


End file.
